


A List of Things

by subchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Episode Related, Episode: s08e22 Clip Show, Hurt Sam, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 03:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subchesters/pseuds/subchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is sorry about what he's done to this story, what he's done to Sam's from events passed, and there's no amount of apology from his lips that can attempt to repair those broken parts he's responsible for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A List of Things

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the secret Sastiel Santa exchange on Tumblr. The prompt I chose to write was clothes-sharing, and I think this is definitely a bit of a weird set up I created.
> 
> I cleaned this up a little because I procrastinated until the very last moment to finish this that I couldn't properly comb through this before the deadline to post this happened.

Every day pitches the same routine as before, more loaded silence molding into the cracks of the tense atmosphere. Every morning, Castiel shifts himself, a distorted parody of human apprehension, all of it crawling up his back and settles between his shoulder blades on top of his skin, heaving a breath, and thinks loudly in his head.

It’s those same words streaking across his mind in a regretful manner about the scene he watches, that he’s created, stumbling down the end of the hall walking upright with more trouble, with too much effort to look like it’s not ripping at the seams.

A scene with skinned elbows and paper-like fragile skin, bruised knees and smeared dark along the eyes testifies this.

Cas still wants to be the hero, the martyr, the knight in shining armor sewn of parts valiant and strong to be the person that Sam can admire, and need him back some day, too beautiful to deny or push away in all its flaws that rush to the surface.

Cas is sorry about this story, what he’s done to Sam’s story; he’s sorry about the bad images still pouring from behind that broken Wall; he’s sorry he can’t do anything about the blood collecting at the corner of Sam’s mouth, the ugly sickness leaving sludge behind, smeared against the inside of Sam’s veins that Cas can smell like it’s poison. The angel wants that boy back that’s not crippling under the weight of the unknown enough that it dampens his spirits where he doesn’t genuinely smile back at the angel.

If Sam does smile, it’s too tired, cracked at the edges, frayed.

More than anything does Castiel want to take all the bloody pieces of Sam’s flayed and damaged parts away, those bits hanging from Sam that need so much care, and patch over all the gaping spots with the pure parts of Sam left over to recreate a semblance of that person who could smile back at the angel and keep up a better illusion that he’s fine.

But now all Cas can think about is how he turned all of it into the current problem grabbing onto the rail at the foot of the staircase because Cas’ solution made these cracked pieces too broken apart and too dry to mold back into the creature it used to be.

Sam’s parts are too used.

There was always an apology the angel had for this, now filling the notepad he had kept of them in his mind, brimming with a million versions of apologies Castiel couldn’t find the right words to publish them into. There was the scribble of an imaginary pen crossing out things that weren’t sufficient and were meaningless that everything sounded too wrong, that Cas couldn’t figure out how to say it.

Now he can’t figure out what to say.

It’s become a routine that the angel watches the younger man stumble across wooden floors of the bunker at any moment in the day, down hallways empty of compassion for Sam, not that they had any in the first place, but that’s not the point, that’s not what Cas wants to think about. It’s because of the emptiness in the world that held little chance for a boy trying to do right in the face of an ugly smoke screen with false promise of redemption.

All of it left Sam bruised and broken and dripping leaning against the wall for support, something he does a lot lately.

The angel takes a deep breath and clenches his fists, would be enough to dig into his palm and rupture his skin, but he’s an angel, a poor excuse for one, so he’s bound to heal from it, making it a moot point.

Castiel watches as Sam stumbles from the foot of the staircase, and ambles his way toward the table to sit down off legs too shaky to keep up for long. Cas flexes his fingers, tightens them again, all that familiar itch under his skin to take away Sam’s pain—he’s an angel for fuck’s sake, he should be able to cure anything, all sickness, injuries, everything that inhibits the human body.

He can’t understand how this evades his power.

He can if he tries, sensing the demonic energy pulsating through Sam, and if only Sam knew he was tainted with more from Hell, the very thing he hates, despises, causes a scene about…

At least Sam gets to be the hero this time.

 

 

\--

 

 

This bunker is supposed to be the part where everyone is happy, where the Winchesters finally have a home after thirty years spent inside a car with endless miles of strips of yellow and black asphalt under the wheels, and everyone’s supposed to be falling over themselves in joyous celebration of things long denied to them.

Castiel takes it back, they’re happy; at least, they put on a good show of it.

Castiel doesn’t know what to say a lot of the time, opening his mouth but his throat won’t loosen enough, he can’t pry the words from his mind, not without it sounding like the apology he works on inside his head.

 _Sam,_ his mind narrates, _I’m sorry for coming to you and using you_. Again, _Sam, I’m sorry for taking down the Wall Dean tried so hard to get up to protect you, and I destroyed everything because I was so sure it was the right thing_.

It was a mistake (deliberate), one Castiel can’t live down.

It’s then that Sam notices Cas standing around, that disgruntled look on his face that means he’s thinking too hard about notions no longer applying to the reality they’re encased in.

And there, that smile placed on Sam’s look, that understanding that Cas wants Sam to stop because it’s almost impossible for Cas to want to face it.

It’s always understanding, this forgiveness Castiel knows he doesn’t deserve.

This is the part where Castiel is supposed to push himself up, toward the table because of that smile, that kind look, that utter sickness beneath the surface of Sam’s waxy skin (too wrong, it’s supposed to be tan) that it beckons Cas toward Sam. The angel will debate flying toward Sam instead of making Sam wait while he walks to him, just give Sam as much relief possible because he deserves.

“Hey, Cas,” and Sam always talks in that lowered voice, smoothing out that doesn’t sound like the years he’s spent  yelling and screaming and crying, just like that in the span of two words.

The angel doesn’t know how the younger man does it.

Cas thinks he would chuckle about this, how he’s thinking of the brunette man in gentle tones like warm colors, wondering if Sam would scoff at it.

“Sam,” comes from Cas’ throat in that grave voice, acknowledging the brunette that’s returned with a light chuckle that’s cut off with a cough, blood splattering against the inside of Sam’s mouth that stops this tranquil scene. Cas bites his lip, enough to hurt a regular human.

“Sorry about that,” Sam rasps like the whole thing is his fault as if he could prevent it.

“No, it’s fine, I understand.”

Castiel still stands, doesn’t take a seat in favor of watching Sam clear his throat, spit out blood and attempt to right himself like he’s not fraying too much at the edges

“Sam, I realize this is probably too late to have your forgiveness, but I’m sorry.”

It’s going like a million times Cas has practiced in his head, with a million sticky notes littering the inside his mind like he’s preparing for some kind of speech. He’s prepared, though, for Sam’s rejection, retaining the belief that Sam has all the right to refuse him.

“Wha—?” and Sam can’t finish his sentence as he’s coughing again, and Cas winces.

“I realize when I apologized to you, when you were in that mental ward, that you were still hallucinating when I apologized to you.”

“Cas, it’s _okay_ ,” and Sam tries to emphasize his words more than the cough.

“Sam, I am more than aware that if I hadn’t destroyed your Wall, this wouldn’t have happened to you.”

“I chose to do this, Cas,” and it’s back to that gentle voice, as if Sam were consoling him, and sometimes, Cas wants to think if Sam were like his brother, if Sam would explode with rage leaking from his mouth, and all flailing fists and words of a violent matter intending to hurt. “I’ve got a chance of stopping Hell, even Crowley, from ever hurting anyone again. It’s been a long time coming, Cas.”

“And if this hurts you, Sam?”

“It’ll be worth it.”

“And you’re brother?” It’s low, it’s a sucker punch, but Cas already knows the answer.

It’s sort of obvious that Sam may not have thought that far, and it’s so _classically_ Winchester, that self-sacrifice and all-consuming desire of revenge that it destroys them and leaves them crumpled at the feet of Death that’s too irritated, yet somewhat amused by their antics continuously interrupting the natural order.

All the little words Sam has building inside him cannot do enough to spill out the excuses he wants to make, excuses he doesn’t have, no amount of reasoning making it even half okay. Sam knows this is the exact kind of thing that broke him into pieces on the floor because Dean had this self-righteous idea to sell his soul for the greater good.

Sam is trying to rail against that idea but it becomes more and more significant with each day as more heat spreads through him. To be frank, it’s making Sam nervous, scared, but he’ll ruin everything if he says it out loud, and he knows better than that, just one word on how scared he is will push down every wall he’s constructed to seem less vulnerable and weak.

Sam only sighs, knowing this conversation is going to only dig under his skin to grasp the weak feelings he has, pulling them, exposing him raw, and Sam will not give into that.

“Sam, I don’t want you hurt, you’ve already done enough penance.”

Sam sort of smiles to himself, a wilted thing, and, “I’m gonna be fine, Cas,” Sam tries (and isn’t that a lie?), not too comfortable at how close Cas is hitting, “this isn’t the worst thing to happen to me, and it won’t be the last. I’ll just deal with whatever comes my way.”

That’s the end, the conversation can’t be moved forward because Sam will dodge it, he’ll put off worry because that’s who he is, that’s what he aspires to keep the dull roar inside his head pushed to the back of a darkened corner to forget about.

Cas is very accustomed to Winchester behavior and he knows that Sam won’t directly confront it, doesn’t want to face the reality of mortality these Trials could have on him. He wants to think because Cas is here, because the angel is so currently accessible, Dean will have someone with him, to take care of him, help through the dark spots that will splash over, but even Sam knows it won’t be enough.

There are some pieces that Sam knows cannot be repaired in his brother.

 

 

\--

 

 

Castiel can sense it every time, already listing a mental catalog of all the things wrecking Sam to leave him shaking against a wall with blood in palm and on his tongue, all of that need to be desperately normal enough to fool even the best of people with too good of trained eyes to spot weakness.

The bony parts of Sam’s hand covers his mouth, little ridges popping up to show the disease festering right under his skin and showing off his ever-ruining body. The the scene at the end of the hall unfolds and more coughing, spitting up more blood, more of things Cas wants to cross off his list that hurt Sam.

Cas will do a lot to make up for this; he knows he should apologize now that Sam’s bones show through his skin, he should apologize for the blood under Sam’s tongue, he should apologize a lot, mostly about that ruined Wall that sits in fractured pieces scattered in Sam’s head.

What he can do is go to the younger man, breeze through time and space in a mere second to peel Sam away from the unyielding wall in an attempt to show an emotion he’s never completely learned to grasp. It would be laughable, he knows that, but it’s better than nothing.

Cas could fix everything with a simple touch to the forehead and there would be no more blood dripping over Sam’s lip, it’s what he used to do, how much his power was needed, weld back parts too stretched apart and ripping with red liquid taking up the space. It’s a thing of the past, it’s no longer useful.

It makes Cas feel like a failure.

He’s got an arm around Sam’s shoulders, feeling that body wrack with coughs and gasps and shudders, all kinds of wrong things that Cas can never do anything about. This is the part where Sam would tell him it’s okay and everything is alright, completely composed of paper thin smiles and tired eyes that Cas almost can’t bear to look into. He almost speaks out loud of things that would ruin Sam’s composure, how Sam isn’t okay, he _isn’t good_ , but that’s not going to stop anything.

Cas has learned a long time ago about this tragically brilliant resistance to fail.

There’s a part where Sam would be trying to hold it together for everyone that’s around him, but Cas can sense that rattle in his chest, the expansion of muscles too weak to perform to their fullest, and Sam would swallow more air to keep down those emotions he wants to burst into. However, Sam can’t, Cas know that, and surely that can’t be healthy, with those seemingly pesky things called emotions tearing at the walls of Sam’s throat, some effort that goes hardly unnoticed.

There’s a quiet moment, the sagging of Sam’s body in Cas’ arms, almost completely dead that Castiel could swear that Sam has passed out, but he doesn’t, too stubborn for that, Sam wouldn’t be a Winchester if he gave into sweet defeat so quickly.

There’s a rattle in Sam’s chest, and Sam swallows so his heart doesn‘t come back up to escape the wreck that is his body these days, and Sam needs a moment to gather himself. It’s Castiel’s hold that keeps Sam from sliding out of his skin to the floor in a mess his body wants to become, but Sam puts on a brave face.

“Cas,” he tries in that voice shattered one too many times. Swallowing down pieces of himself that tries to come out through his voice, Sam tries again with, “I’m okay now, it’s fine.”

“Is it really, Sam?” and they both know the answer, but one chooses to brew in denial over the entire scene.

“Yeah,” Sam says between breaths, trying to stand, legs that are obviously trying their hardest to not collapse even with the little effort Cas exerts to hold Sam up.

Sometimes Sam forgets that Castiel is like the cosmos captured in the shape of a man.

So maybe Sam is trying too much to put up a front that he’s fine, and he’s certainly living up to it as he forces himself through aches and needles scraping at his skin to seem like the man he used to, smiling with that, ‘grin and bear it,’ attitude that Winchesters always have advocated.

Sam’s trying so hard to play the part that he forgets it’s Cas that’s holding him up, pressed against the wall.

“Sam, you’re not well, let me—“

“Cas, really, I’m fine, _it’s_ fine,” a pause for a breath, “you don’t have to worry about me.” Sam knows, however, if Cas let him go he’d crumple to his knees and his voice would fail him to ask for help that his pride can’t allow to happen.

His sickness surrounds him, forces Sam to be the princess in the tower and the sickness prowling as the dragon, waiting for Sam to attempt to run. Sam knows he won’t get far before it’s on his heels, snapping and biting and trying to hook into him, and in a way, it’s Cas who’s being his knight, keeping him propped up, as much as that hurts his pride to admit it.

“I know it is customary for you and Dean to carry on as though there is nothing wrong,” and makes this like an observation, “but it’s very clear that you can’t stand without my assistance.”

“That’s—“

“So would it be ideal for me to let you go and see you stand without my assistance?”

Sam wants argue, throw out excuses that he’s completely fine, but Sam knows this is a losing battle (add it to the list of his recent loses, cross out his latest efforts to retain some right of free will, just throw it in the trash bin with other crumpled lists of his failures) and he knows he can’t win this (not like he ever could), and he knows to concede.

Besides, Sam’s too tired to even think about putting his usual fervor into fighting.

He just aches too much for it.

This finds Sam being hoisted up with Cas’ help, hands with gentleness that falsifies the cosmos power underneath this skin, and Sam’s leaning on Cas for relief, but it’s the current moment that his body loses its resistance and crumples, and Sam isn’t expecting this, a gasp torn from his lips into the space around him as he’s collapsing.

There is no ground that meets underneath his body, no splitting pain coming through his already tired body, and it’s when Sam realizes that he’s not falling, he’s not uprooted from his feet because he's still standing, stationary and with Cas looking at him.

Sam denies the color sprawling across his face.

Cas is the current hero of this scene in which he mostly supports Sam's weight as an effortless task, and he’s helping Sam across the hall, all the while there is no indication from him that he knows Sam is struggling with the idea that he’s nothing more than dead weight his legs can’t hold still enough to support. This disgusting helplessness is what the Winchester has tried to avoid, too many times has his will been shoved under some other purpose expecting him to just abide by it.

Through all of this, Sam hopes Dean isn’t nearby to see any of this.

He doesn’t have enough thought in mind to sit down on anything, more than likely to collapse into himself, spine cracking in half before he could muster enough effort to even dare to sit and not try to fall over.

Instead, Sam says, “Cas, just let me go to my room, I just need to lie down,” and it’s much better than admitting his head is swimming and he can’t exactly be upright.

Cas thinks for a moment, stopping and letting go of Sam and gets in front of him, kneeling down so that Sam’s unsupported body drops down. Quickly Cas gets his arms behind Sam’s legs and before Sam knows it, Cas is lifting him, almost as through two hundred pounds (is he really that much anymore? How much has he lost in this last year from not hunting and these Trials?) of withering muscle sprawled across his back means nothing. It’s a little too late to stop Castiel from carrying him piggyback style.

“Cas—”

“This is much easier, is it, Sam? I would think that you would take offense to me carrying you in the style in which newly-betrothed are, and this is easier for you. We’ll get to your room faster this way.”

It’s a silent humiliation to bear.

Sam really hopes to god Dean isn’t going to round a corner any time soon.

Sam can only hold on as much as his arms will allow it, and Castiel walks faster, down halls and stairs to his room, much faster than they started off, with that poor excuse of an illusion that Sam is fine to do as he normally is.

Cas lets Sam down (slides down) off his back to collect shakily on his feet, toward his bed, and he's practically falling without the support Sam had forgotten his body doesn't have for a while.

There’s this silence filling the spaces between them as Sam shifts on the bed in an attempt to seem assure Cas he’s fine, continuing this tired effort Sam won’t admit doesn’t work. This is the part where Sam would look up and smile as Cas pushes away from him with an assured, “call me if you need anything,” but things like this doesn’t go to Sam’s liking, not really, but it’s a hard thing to accept, even this far down the road of Sam’s life.

Inside Sam’s head is a series of doubts and bitterness over his situation of helplessness that it must show, pushing past Sam’s carefully-constructed (weakening) defenses to appear just on the surface enough for Cas to stare at him, those enquiring eyes knowing exactly what Sam is hiding.

“Thanks for helping me—”

“You haven’t been sleeping lately.”

Sam stops his voice.

“I can sense anomalies within the human body, Sam. It’s easy to see that your body is suffering from ailments, and lack of sleep is what’s also there.”

Sam hates angels and their abilities.

Should Sam even try continuing this tired conversation how he’s really okay and not falling apart, and wondering if any of this should even be worth the heat under his skin, the dizzy murkiness in his head, all of it just like this big, horrific joke that he’s going through?

He’d rather not be seen a charity case for someone.

“It happens, Cas. I can’t control it,” and what a sour taste that leaves for him to admit that, “but there’s nothing that can be done, I’m used to it. It happened when I went to Stanford,” and this reminder of those failed dreams Sam pushes back down quickly, “it’s just something that happens, Cas. I’ll be fi—,” Sam starts but cuts off with, “I’ll manage.”

It’s when his sickness tells him that it’s still here, coming up through his throat that leaves Sam choking and coughing, hunched over and blood splattering in the back of his throat and on his tongue, bitter and acrid, and a constant reminder just how weak he’s become, and Sam has this undeniable rage that sparks in him for a moment but he’s too tired to hold onto that righteous anger to fuel him, just as the breath in his body is forced from his lungs.

There’s a warm hand lain upon his shoulder, and Sam catches a glimpse of Cas standing nearer than he was, offering some kind of human contact that Sam would find endearing but he can’t right now. He’s left gasping when the coughing stops, this shaking of his frame telling him he’s close to hitting that brick wall of no return.

The angel watches this futile attempt to remain calm, and he feels that familiar anger and bitterness over what events in the past he’s turned over to help create this hopeless and bleak situation that he can’t rightfully deny he’s had no free will in causing.

“There’s—nothing you can do, Cas,” Sam says with forced effort to assure Castiel, trying to clear the blood from under his tongue and in his throat.

“I may not be able to help you through this, but I can give you something to help you sleep,” and Cas knows he could very well help Sam but only temporarily, and when it wears off Cas will be reminded that he has failed Sam yet again to fix things, that he can’t be useful at all.

Sam looks up toward with this brief flicker of hope, his defenses crushed and that vulnerability that Castiel knows Sam hates with every fiber of his being.

“I can help you sleep, let you rest for a while. It’s… only temporary. Dean hates it when I use my power on him, so I find it likely he would hate it if I used it on you, too.”

Sam’s aching too much to even care, letting his hair fall into his face almost like a sign of defeat that he’s begrudgingly accepted.

Cas sighs, “it’ll only be temporary, not permanent,” and he stresses it again, trying to not let Sam’s disappointment and misery grow more than they should.

Cas pushes Sam back, lays him flat on his bed, and presses two fingers to Sam’s forehead after he hesitates briefly. He wants to jump ahead to moment of epiphany when Sam can no longer suffer and is out of harm’s way for that brief, yet blissful moment that’s long denied to him.

The older man doesn’t like this supposed fate Sam has been resigned to and more than often, he wishes to see the younger man fight like he normally does through bitter endings and soon-to-be bleak outlooks with that admirable determination.

Sam’s now just as blank and tired.

“You will wake later on. But I am sorry that you will not be healed like I wish to do.”

“It’s okay, Cas,” and that heartbreaking forgiveness always has to shine through, no matter what happens to Sam, “I understand.”

There’s a rush around Sam’s mind before everything blacks out.

Cas watches Sam’s body lose the tenseness and illusion of fine it projects, sagging back down into a bed unable to relieve him. The angel can only stare, eyes narrowed over the brushed out lines of Sam’s face and in a need to assure himself, he’s reaching out fingers to brush at the hair on Sam’s face, not comfortable with the non-normalcy of the situation.

With Sam not taking care of himself, Cas supposes he could try it himself. Dean may not be happy, maybe feeling like someone is trying to take the position he has to take care of Sam, but he doubts Dean would take too much offense.

In this moment does Cas think of something else, with this sudden feeling to provide comfort, he’s upright with his hands grabbing onto the lapels of his overcoat, shedding it but he’s pausing for a moment. He remembers the last time he took off this coat, not of his own doing, and a memory flashes of a man with a family with a neverending faith in a higher before he did things that ruined everything that had come to be about that family. He smiles sadly about it, that grief about those mistake always etched into him to never be forgotten.

He’s got the coat bundled in his arms before leaning over, placing it over Sam’s shoulders. It’s not enough to cover Sam, but just so that it covers a lot.

With this, Cas reaches around to grab a chair, scrapping across the floor but doesn’t worry about waking Sam.

So maybe Cas wants to offer more than just the use of his Grace to help Sam, these definitive acts that define his character, and something more involving care and gentleness.

In ways, he wants to reach out and touch Sam’s soul to acquaint himself with that warmth Sam has shown to him over these years in the face of Cas’ past hostility and actions, a regret pasted to his Grace as a reminder.

Castiel leans against his knees with his fingers crossed and head resting on said fingers, watching, waiting, passing the time in Sam’s presence and wanting nothing more than to do something, anything that can erase past events leading up to this, make it into something more grand, beautiful.

Castiel tried to position himself as the knight of the tale out to save the world from the dragon that was the fight in Heaven, and as in Heaven, so it shall be on Earth that this fight spilled into to a point where Cas had lost himself in this midst of doing the right thing that shattered everything and all he loved. It was too bad he didn’t care then, not with one of the results of his failures lying in front of him with non-Heavenly power eating away at it.

One of the angel’s hands finds itself on Sam’s shoulder like a condolence, and a low, “I am sorry, Sam, for what I have indirectly put you through. I cannot tell you how truly sorry I am.”

It’s not like Sam could respond and he knows it, fucking _knows_ that Sam would forgive him if was awake, just like that and with little consideration as to why he shouldn’t. In all, Sam shouldn’t forgive him, he should hate him, want to rip his Grace out to throw across the sky and the universe.

But he doesn’t.

The angel wants a better story for this, for Sam.

Cas sits for the rest of the night watching this weakened human sleep.

 

 

\- -

 

 

If Sam wanted to comment about waking up with Cas’ overcoat on him, clenched in his fits, he doesn’t say.

He only hands it back with a small smile and a, “thank you,” while Dean’s in the background in that dead guy’s robe raising an eyebrow, and snorts.

 

\- -

 

It’s one of those days where Sam is feeling so angry about everything.

But there’s a difference between then and now, when Sam could lock down on it and push it away, not with heat and sickness curling through his veins and down his spine, whispering ugly things in his ear that depletes his defenses into a laughable concept.

Sam can’t seem to stand steady, gripping at the wall for support, hands clasped to the guardrail of the stairs, breathing with trouble, and blood threatening to spill into his lungs as he tries so (too) hard to look like the regular Sam.

All he can do is sit at the table with a pile of uncoordinated books to keep him busy from thinking about this sneaking suspicion of something wicked settling between his ribs and into his chest.

But there’s a sweeping feeling across his back as Castiel is suddenly there, shedding his overcoat and placing it on his back.

It’s weird.

“Cas, what—”

“I heard to be a human comfort to offer clothes to another in times of difficulty,” and it sounds too… endearing to hear that from Cas.

However, Sam isn’t going to correct him, isn’t going to do anything more than let Cas’ attempts of comfort go uninterrupted.

Again, Sam really hopes Dean isn’t around to see this.

 

 

\- -

 

 

It’s sort of harder with Cas around, in ways Sam has never noticed.

With every passing moment, he’s reminded that Castiel is an angel; he’s an all-powerful being capable of miracles and divine redemption humans pray to for deliverance.

It’s only to tell Sam that he’s beyond help, even from Heavenly intervention.

It makes it as frustrating as the headache lancing through his temples, another cough coiling in his throat until he has to eject it. It locks him in this tower that has become his life, to only force him to take what’s happening, never any escape, never any respite.

Sam is sitting on his bed, head in one hand trying to grit through this headache, from having to sit down because his fucking wrecked body decides what it wants to do, not Sam, but it’s not like he’s ever had a choice when it comes to that decision.

Inside his head is the sound of ringing, a crash that’s inevitable and coming to tell him he’s about to reach his limits, and that taunting voice in the back with no distinct sound telling him that he’s too weak to accomplish anything and all this, the near mind-numbing anger over this is all that he deserves.

He was damned from birth.

Every second weighs down harder on Sam until he’s got both hands on his head, breathing through clenched teeth, but slowly, this headache is receding.

A rush, a flap of wings, and Castiel is right in front of Sam, examining him, those eyes tracing down every line of Sam’s face as if he’s trying to find some way to inside Sam’s mind to figure out how to fix him from the inside.

“Cas, you don’t have to do anything for me.”

“You are more distraught than normal.”

“Well, considering all this,” and Sam waves a hand around as if to direct Castiel’s attention, “that I’m going through right now, I could be better.”

“You're angry.”

Sam frowns, almost as if Castiel has been following his thought process.

“You have been quiet these past few days, you don’t correct Dean when he makes comments about something you don’t agree with, you stare down at books you collect longer than it takes to read them. And you turn the pages with more force than what is considered necessary.”

Fucking angels and their vigilance.

Sam doesn’t speak, only continues to stare at him before moving away his eyes.

“’m just frustrated is all, Cas. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“You say that all time, Sam.”

“It’s not your problem to worry about. I’m dealing with this, Cas, it’s all I can do.”

Castiel continues his stare, taking in every crack he can see in Sam’s façade, every exposed nerve that goes uncovered to wilt.

“You think you deserve this.”

With that, Sam does look at Cas, the angel standing in front of him. If he was able to, Sam would stand, extend to his full height to tower over the angel, use his stance to turn Castiel away and just walk out, just a simple thing he could do but he can’t, his body cannot do the things it used to.

“That’s not what I said.”

Is it really worth it to deny it, to think he doesn’t deserve to suffer because past mistakes warrant this? Things he’s done, things Sam thinks he needs to atone for, act as though these aren’t true because he’s wanted a valiant reason why he should close the Gates of Hell? Sam should know this, especially those dark sports in his mind that lowly talk how he knows he deserves all this suffering. He should especially know about this.

“But it’s what you’ve decided.”

If Sam were a better man (when was he?) he could stop now, he could walk away—he’s dealt with this enough with Dean, if things get too much for him to handle, he could walk away and forget it cool off somewhere to gain a level-headed mind before he thinks to take another move.

Sam isn’t so lucky this time.

With the shrug of weakened shoulders, Sam doesn’t answer.

“You and Dean are alike in this, believing redemption isn’t possible. As much as you forgive others for what they’ve done, you don’t extend that to yourself.”

The youngest Winchester isn’t too pleased with about this analysis.

“Considering some of the things I’ve done in the past, I’m not exactly deserving of that.”

Cas does that head tilt, “but you have been influenced without knowing, it wasn’t your fault. There were higher powers counting on your decisions to be wrong.”

Sam’s laugh is gravel-like from his overworked throat, not at all containing humor which causes a frown to crease Cas’ lips.

“Yeah, well, I should’ve known things weren’t completely right.”

“Sam—”

“They were my choices, my actions, I did things I shouldn’t have,” Sam pushes out more forcefully, as if he’s trying to dissuade Cas, stop him from trying to gloss over things he’s done to make Sam feel better.

“Sam.”

There’s a hand under his chin, fingers closing around paper-like skin and directing Sam’s face to Cas’ which Sam didn’t realize he looked away. He hates this, how the angel is looking at him without this disgust he always expects, only serving further to force himself to keep onto those old ways of pushing blame onto himself to believe that he’s never deserved good things, he doesn’t have the right to be happy because of his past mistakes.

“It is not your fault,” the angel reiterates, “a lot of things in your past were counting on you and Dean to make mistakes and you both were manipulated into it. But you and Dean eventually overcame them. You are more than just your mistakes, Sam.”

“It’s not that simple,” comes bitter from Sam’s tongue, “ _I_ should have known, _I_ should have done more to stop these things. I lied to Dean, I let out Lucifer, I didn’t look for him or you when you went to Purgatory, I fucking ran—”

“You could not have known that Dean and I went to Purgatory. There are no known stories about humans getting into Purgatory, even an angel. It is not your faul—.”

“I should have _tried_!” is when Sam’s voice is nearly yelling. “I should have done everything I could to look for you guys, and Dean is rightfully angry over that. I failed him, I failed you, Kevin, _everyone_!”

“ _Sam_ ,” Cas says forcefully, “it is _not your fault_. Do not blame yourself for things you didn’t know,” and with each emphasis, every sharply-emphasized word, Castiel’s fingers tighten on Sam’s face, fingers pressing indents into skin almost too weak to not split under them, “things were set in motion before you and Dean were born. You could not have known we went to Purgatory, you were alone.”

There’s that stubborn refusal to believe shining in Sam’s lined eyes, and it makes Cas press on, pushing onto this vulnerable spot until Sam gives way. “Even if you think you are not worthy of forgiveness, you already have a spot in Heaven, as does Dean. You both will be together in Heaven, forgiven of your past. You see yourself as unforgiveable; Heaven does not see you that way. You have already been forgiven a long time ago.”

There is some form of resolution that Cas is looking for but Sam doesn’t let it show, trying to look away, anywhere but the face of a Heavenly being trying to get Sam to forgive himself. Here lies the wreckage of a once proud man with string coming out of his seams to hold him together, crumbing under the stress of keeping composed, composed of parts weary and tired that are only the things that make up his being. Cas can give care to those parts used, apply new materials over pieces too worn down to continue.

He’s building Sam Winchester up from scraps and pieces leftover.

Cas places his other hand on Sam’s face, keeps Sam’s head tilted toward his own, “you are a wonderful person, Sam. It’s very valiant that you try to atone for your mistakes, and you have.”

An intake of breath, and Sam is still trying to stop himself from trying to believe any of this, stubbornly holding onto everything.

Cas doesn’t think about his next move, giving into Dean’s past advice to just spontaneously do things, and he’s pressing his lips to Sam, roughened against Sam’s own, just the briefest of touch, pulling back and looking at Sam’s face, looking back at Cas with slightly parted lips.

“You are a strong man, Sam, much more than what can be asked of any other person. You choose to suffer for others, yourself, so no one can face that reality. You should forgive yourself as others have.”

Sam lets out this shaky breath, eyes shining before he’s back at Cas’ mouth, brushing his lips against Cas’, just this bare contact like he’s asking for permission before he goes on, and Cas is letting his own brush against Sam, letting Sam push against his lips, tongue skating out across the seam of his own.

Sam starts to pull back but Cas is ahead, one hand traveling under Sam’s jaw, curves around his neck to grasp the back of Sam’s head, and he’s pushing forward, presses flush against Sam’s lips and demands entrance. His tongue traces against Sam’s lips in a parody of Sam’s earlier action but Sam is the one opening up, inviting Cas’ tongue into his mouth. It’s warm, moist, and all the more better when Sam’s tongue comes to meet his, swirling over with Cas’ own.

Cas is kneading at Sam’s hair, fingers clenching and unclenching, giving a slight pull on Sam’s hair as his thumb around Sam’s chin brushes soothingly in slow strokes, over and across the delicate skin of Sam’s jaw. It’s not until a moment later does Cas realize the breathy sounds Sam is making and that he’s got Sam under him and flushed.

“Sam,” Cas tries to say, that burnt-out gravel-like voice of his causing this shuddering reaction from Sam. He’s tempted, this need to continue, to stop, not sure which one is more pressing and morally correct.

“It’s fine, Cas,” and that’s what almost does it, those three words that Cas is used to falsify Sam’s own state, not in this context, this invitation to destroy what little control Cas has.

“Are you sur—”

And there’s a hand behind his head, in his hair, and Sam’s lips against his own, and legs bracketing his waist, and a roughened, “yeah, I’m sure.”

It begins with Sam arching his hips, grinding against Cas’ own with a need for any type of friction, a sensation Cas chases as he responds, pushing down, trying to not use his own angelic strength in a move of unchecked desire. Heat threads under his skin, through Cas’ veins, and collects into his groin, that familiar hardness starting to ache and demanding attention.

Cas moves forward, kisses at Sam’s mouth, around his lips, and that ever increasing need to move other places, under the curve of the younger man’s jaw, onto the arch of his neck. The stubble of Cas’ face grazes against sensitized skin, rubbing against the rough texture of Cas’ jaw, and Sam savors it, arching his head back into the pillow stopping him from pushing into the mattress.

They grind together, continuing to build that heat between them that pools into their stomachs, between the spaces of their bodies, until Cas is hooking his fingers into Sam’s shirt, pulling on it, fingers finding the buttons with just enough effort to get the first two unbuttoned to gain more access to Sam’s skin, to his collar bones in which Cas attaches his mouth to, pulling the skin between his teeth and letting go to suck on his. He’s curious enough to get more into it, licking and nipping and biting at the skin until it’s turning red with blood pulling under the skin.

Cas leaves a trail of bruises pasted like petals to Sam’s skin, tongue trailing around the skin of Sam’s neck, feeding on those sounds Sam gives. He wants to do a lot for Sam; he wants to make sure Sam can enjoy something without strings attached, without a time limit in which he has to grasp it before it goes away completely.

There’s solid heat from Sam’s hands travelling up and down his sides, fingers catching on the overcoat before they grip handfuls of the fabric, reminding Cas that he has to get out of it. He’s pushing back, peeling out of the coat as he stares at Sam, at the hair spilling all around Sam’s shoulders and grazing his neck, splattered all around the pillow.

It’s a heady sight.

Castiel is leaning forward as Sam hitches up on his elbows to meet Cas halfway as their mouths meet, opening to push their tongues against each other, one of Cas’ hands finding Sam’s hair again, pulling and flexing as the other travels under Sam’s shirt, around heated skin, around the arches and curves of Sam’s sides and ribs and stomach, just all over each space that he can reach.

He marvels a little how different Sam’s body feels than what it looks, how it contrasts from two years ago and now. He doesn’t think about what has caused Sam to dwindle down, for the muscles to lose their residual hardness and shape, as he knows it’s going to ruin his mood and he can’t have that.

Sam’s leaning back to get off his elbows and pushing his hands against Cas’ chest, fingers trailing around the material until they brush against the buttons of Cas’ suit jacket, lacing around the buttons to pull them off. Sam grinds against Cas, the other following until their sliding against each other, can feel the hardness pronounced between the two.

“Cas, god—” and Sam’s voice is wrecked when he breaks away which allows Cas to go back to biting at Sam’s skin, can feel the heave of Sam’s chest against how own, and he’d rather feel it bare, get his mouth around there, mark it with his own brand and not just with those runes that are on the ribs underneath Sam’s skin.

Sam gets his fingers onto Cas’ pants, fumbling at the belt, drags it from the loops and pushes his hand inside after he undoes the front, pushing past the underwear Cas is wearing and grasping his dick, hand encircling it and squeezing, breaking Cas’ trance on Sam’s skin, a shuddering breath pulling into his lungs.

Sam’s other hand is moving through Cas’ hair, nails scrapping against the scalp, and moans almost brokenly when Cas returns the favor to wrap his hand around Sam’s dick, forgetting that Cas was focusing on his pants. Instead, Cas is moving his hand to knock Sam’s out of the way, reaching up to spit on his hand, gathering it in his palm before he encircles both of their cocks, hand wrapped around them both as he pushes against Sam, grinds his dick with Sam’s, skin rubbing against each other, slowly slicking more with sweat.

There’s Cas’ name on Sam’s lips, pushing into his grip, one arm coming to wrap around the angel’s neck, pressing his forehead against Castiel’s, mouth open and breathing harshly, Sam's chest expanding and collapsing with quick intakes of breath that he can’t pull in faster.

“Cas, I—I need—” and that’s a code for something Cas hasn’t figured out completely, not until Sam takes his other hand not around Cas’ neck and reaches over, toward a dresser that Cas takes the time to follow, watching Sam clumsily open to the drawer to take out a bottle of lubricant. Sam's removing his arm from around Castiel’s neck. He’s opening it, squirting some on his fingers, swirling it as he puts the bottle down beside him.

Cas has momentarily forgotten to keep moving his hand around his and Sam’s cocks while he watches Sam’s hand trail down, lifting his leg to reach under and Sam’s moaning louder, a gasp cutting off to take another breath of air. Cas watches, fascinated how Sam has pushed one of his lubed fingers inside himself, and Sam gets his attention with, “Cas, come on, just—keep—” and pushes up, his dick rubbing against Cas’, a drag there as the spit Cas was using has mostly dried.

Instead, Sam pushes the bottle to Cas, and the angel gets the idea (he hopes), flipping the lid open to apply an amount to his hand before he wraps it back around his and Sam’s dicks.

It’s an easier glide, smoother, a little cooler, but it warms with each stroke, and it’s so much better. Sam arches into it, Cas pushes back, and Sam’s other hand moves quicker, stroking in and out of his hole with more fervor, and it makes Cas curious, just enough to try something.

Sam’s hardly paying attention to anything, not outside of the heat and weight pressed against him, around him, inside—it’s been too long since he’s had something like this, not enough time to even savor something good, and he’s going to bask in it, let it wash over him like it’s going to be the last thing on this goddamned Earth he’s able to have.

However, there’s another presses against the hand he’s using to finger himself, and Sam’s opening his eyes to look down, and almost chokes because Cas has is hand joining Sam’s, a finger pressing in with Sam’s, and the younger man lets it happen, lets Cas push in one alongside his own, this look of curiosity mingling with arousal.

“Just follow my lead,” Sam says, biting back a moan. Castiel does, moving his finger with Sam’s, swirls his finger whenever Sam does all the while there’s this sort of second attention whenever Cas movies his hand on his and Sam’s dicks. He gives these low grunts, these broken off sounds that Sam leans curls his arm back around Cas’ shoulders to bring him down.

But this is short lived, with the breath of air harshly breathed out when Sam finds that spot, trying to urge Cas on to press with his finger.

Castiel is gaining enough confidence that he pulls his finger out, grasping at Sam’s wrist to pull his hand away and instead, ignoring Sam’s look of confusion and severed pleasure, he’s pushing two lubed fingers in Sam, immediately looking for that one spot that had Sam gasping and writhing with his name broken in Sam's throat, a little eager to explore this new sensation that this causes Sam to feel.

With this new direction, Sam lets his head fall back, letting Cas do what he wants. Sam tries to push up into Cas’ hand while he bears down on the angel’s fingers, and these broken words that pour from his mouth hardly have any meaning, increasing in frequency and less sense.

Cas moves his hand faster, and lets Sam pull him down, kisses him and pushes his tongue into Cas’ mouth, harder, probing. They’re a desperate mold of limbs and heat, especially now that Cas has found that spot, a whine coming from Sam’s throat with it.

It’s almost over, Sam can tell, heat spreading up from his belly and ascending against his spine, as Cas is also moving faster, rougher fingers pushing in faster, a third having joined a little while back.

Sam just starts saying words, as he always does when he’s close, just these bitten off words holding no real intent but this time, he’s got a lot of feelings boiling underneath, and they just roll off his tongue with no preamble.

“Come on, Cas, do it, do it, do it—” and he’s just repeating himself, these words strung together in a frenzy of need and want, but there’s this other group of words that has Cas taking notice, that has him flaying apart.

Under all those words, it’s when Sam starts to moan, “want you to do it, want you to fuck me next time, just, _please_ —” that has Castiel coming undone, pushes this mental image of Sam’s legs wrapped around his waist, back grinding into the bed, hair plastered to his face, all writhing under Cas’ touch, because he’s the one giving Sam what he needs and it’s just—

A hoarse cry interrupts that image, and Sam is curling into himself, coming, clenching around Cas’ fingers, and through it, triggers Cas’ own orgasm, hunching over Sam, grip tightening a little around them, breathing open-mouthed, sweat carving downward across Cas’ face, onto Sam’s chest.

There’s the after slice that molds into the atmosphere when all sounds fall away when their actions finally settle in. There’s a slick sound when Cas pulls his fingers from Sam, and unwraps his fingers from around him and Sam to sit back on his haunches, looking at what’s become of Sam still lying on the bed.

Sam looks passive, peaceful even, and it carves away at the doubt building in Cas’ mind that maybe he pushed too far, and this relaxed state of mind Sam is in (and Cas himself, admittedly) has passed into is enough to quell him.

Sam is smiling, hair curled over his neck (splotchy, red, bruised) and he’s reaching out a hand, fingers curling around Cas’ wrist still slick with remnants of lube.

“Thanks for not giving up,” comes softly from Sam, and this statement has Cas confused, creases appearing on his face until he remembers, that reassurance he was pushing into Sam’s mind, refusal to let Sam destroy himself. “I—… I know not a lot of people would have cared to… do that for me, but thanks.”

“You are a remarkable person, Sam. You deserve forgiveness.”

This slow smile spreads across Sam’s face, satisfied and content, and it makes Castiel wish he could put it there, a constant need to reassure Sam at any time that yes, Sam is a beautiful human being, and if Cas will do anything to get Sam to see that this, this happiness and content, is something he deserves.

With that, Sam is reaching across the space between them, hand encircling Cas’ neck and pulling his down, moving just enough to pull at the blankets under him but pauses.

“You don’t have to stay,” is soft, low, “you can leave if you planned to.”

Castiel tilts his head, glances at the door, at Sam, down at his clothes on the floor, and back at his overcoat at the foot of the bed. With no other plan, he’s grabbing at his coat, pulling it with him, and crawls up to Sam. He’s wedging himself under the blankets, overcoat in hand, and he’s sharing it with Sam, trying to divide it up enough even though they’re under the blankets.

Sam chuckles a little when Cas is crawling behind, face pressed into his neck, “did you get into the habit of sharing your coat with me?”

“It has… become appealing to me.”

And Cas pushes his chest to Sam’s back, curls around Sam and relaxes. He doesn’t sleep, angels never have to worry, but he enjoys the silence, the aftermath of his and Sam’s previous activities. The drifting sounds of Sam’s voice becoming sleep-ridden is enough content for Cas.


End file.
